


Autumn

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove's Necklace, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Coming Out, Gay Billy Hargrove, Love Confessions, M/M, Soft Billy Hargrove, Soft Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Good Boyfriend, Summer, jewelry sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: The jewelry box that sits like an old prison letter on Billy's book shelf. That was his mother's too, so. California born and bred.When Spring turns to summer and shoves turn from violent to teasing, Steve opens the lid and digs through Billy's treasure chest. Sticks the rings on and models them. Elizabeth Taylor. Silver and gold painting a line on each finger just because it can. Steve holds his hand away from his face, head tilted to the side while he considers the tiny ornate stones his mother paired her outfits with."How come you never wear these ones?"(or) Before the first leaf falls, it will happen.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 101





	Autumn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timethot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timethot/gifts).



> Sir. Happy goddamn birthday. You're an angel and an absolute pleasure to speak with. Seriously, our conversations routinely leave me in stitches and I hope that December 1, 2020 is (or was) as special as you. Very happy that this fandom has given me you as a friend. Just really overjoyed that you were born. All around grateful.  
> For you on this, the best of days. All my love,  
> Jaz

Billy doesn’t think much of it at first, the way Steve's kind of obsessed with the idea of boys wearing jewelry. Maybe it's just a midwestern thing; quaint as the day is long. Conservative, but. Long before shoves turned golden Billy had explained that _everyone in Cali feels better draped in silver._

And that. Was a lie, alright? Because Billy wears a lot of jewelry. Less than he'd like, but enough to solidify the point he's trying to get across. He catches Steve watching his hands, during algebra. Everyday, just tracing the rings that catch and glint under the fluorescent light from the window that Mrs. Hall insists on leaving open.

Billy scribbles conclusions on his assignment. Erases a few times, allowing the paper to catch and tare under his pencil just to keep up appearances. To avoid being labeled as the brain everyone knows he is, and Steve leans across the isle between them.

"Your rings," He says. Like a statement. Harrington is terrible at whispering, so. 

Billy works overtime to each him how. "What about them?"

"Did they come from California too?" Steve isn't copying Billy's answers today, which. Kind of throws him for a loop more than the inquiry. More than the weight of what Harrington doesn't know he's asking.

"They were my mom's." Billy twists the metal band once around each finger. He watches Harrington watch him, brown tracking the curve of silver metal turning Billy's skin pink from friction. 

Steve's cheeks are warm, too. But. Not from anything like contact. 

He blinks his big, stupid eyes. "Hands are kinda small, Hargrove."

"Yeah, so?"

Steve shrugs. Turns back to his assignment, to getting every single answer wrong when he knows Billy will go back and fix them later. 

\--

And he's obsessed with it. The where and the why and the how.

The jewelry box that sits like an old prison letter on Billy's book shelf. That was his mother's too, so. California born and bred.

When Spring turns to Summer and shoves turn from violent to teasing, Steve opens the lid and digs through Billy's treasure chest. Sticks rings on his hands and models them. Elizabeth Taylor. Silver and gold painting a line on each finger just because it can. Steve holds his hand away from his face, head tilted to the side while he considers the tiny ornate stones his mother paired her outfits with.

"How come you never wear these ones?"

"Little flashy don't you think?" Billy reads next to the window, where the sunlight can warm his eyelids. Steve removes the rings one by one, seemingly at random, until the smallest sit like two love letters against his pinkies. He considers them again, head still cocked to the side as if he's waiting for the metal to tell him a secret. He looks ridiculous.

Billy lets his book fall open against his stomach. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to understand."

Billy sighs, long and slow. "It's just jewelry, Steve." Because they've been over this before.

The where and the why and the how--it means less than Steve thinks it does and still; "And this box is a window, and a door." Steve stares at the ring on his left pinky finger before turning to watch Billy's hands. Tracking the movement of where they flit against the cover of _Go Set a Watchman._

He's always watching Billy's hands. His knuckles. The rings.

"Why'd you pick your middle fingers?"

"How's that?" Billy asks lightly. But he knows--the where and the why and the how. 

Harrington's obsessed, so he goes back to digging through the jewelry box. The lid ticking against the wall when he opens the little cabinet up front. "Your rings, why do you wear them on your middle fingers?"

Billy opens his book again. Pretends to be reading. "Didn't have any pieces that fit the others."

"Bullshit," Steve chuckles, tucking a simple silver chain against his throat. "If they fit my sausage digits they fit yours, for sure."

And Harrington doesn't understand what he's asking, not really. 

Couldn't imagine, within the comfort of his little world, that the why might be unsavory for someone like him. A deal breaker. Billy turns the page and Steve clicks his tongue. 

Takes the rings off until his fingers are bare, blank canvases. "You can tell me the truth," He says. Like it's simple--a plain silver chain choking the air from Billy's throat. 

Steve opens the lid again and starts the process over.

Billy swallows it down, the. The feeling that his rings are chopping his fingers off. "The middle." He says. "It's symbolic."

"Okay."

"'S like a. Secret language. A code."

Harrington turns around. He's got an earring in now, the drop pearl his mother loved so much. "A code for what?"

Billy never even noticed he had his ears pierced.

Both. Plural, which.

Makes him feel better, somehow. Billy turns another page, comforted by the presence of Atticus Finch. "Those fingers, when they have rings on 'em, means you're queer."

And he can sense it. The gears grinding to life under all that mussy brown hair. Billy swallows it down again. The feeling that, through the pearl drop earring, his mother can finally rest. Doesn't stop him from re-reading the first paragraph of chapter seven, like. 

Twelve times while Steve shuffles around the room. 

While he takes the rings off, closes the box, and settles into a patch of sunlight just to the right of where Billy is falling to carefully arranged pieces.

Steve picks up his notebook. Cracks his copy of _Go Set a Watchman,_ and. "You gonna tell me what I've been missing or do I gotta read it myself?"

Billy lowers his book, watching Steve uncap the same pen he's been using all semester. The one that's chewed to shit, and. 

There's a ring. 

On both middle fingers.

\--

It changes. By degrees, just like the syrupy slow advancement of summer vacation. His necklace sways, glinting against the sun, reflecting warm gold as if Billy himself had lassoed a star in silver. That changes, too. Fluorescent white to honey gold, the change in the seasons.

School lets out. 

Steve gets a job. Billy gets one too, but. Somehow Harrington always ends up at the pool during Billy's shift. Lounging around in swim trunks and slathering sunscreen across the bridge of his nose. Watching.

The gentle sway of metal against gold. The chain holds the key to the universe for Steve, Billy thinks. The answer to all. And the way Billy brings the star to his mouth in the place of his fingertips, cool metal dewy with water and settling like a stone against his lips--

Steve begins asking a lot of questions. More than usual, just.

Ridiculous, impossible things that Billy can't even begin to answer when he's playing hero for an afternoon. Harrington saddles up next to his chair, looking up into the sun with his hair flopping down over his face. Billy wonders why Harrington doesn't buy some sunglasses or put a hand over his eyes to block the rays or just, fucking. 

Not bother him. Go home.

But. Steve pokes his calf. "On the lookout for sharks?"

Billy squints at the kid through his ray bans anyway. Licks his lips, drops the pendant so it rests against tan skies and asks, "What is it now, pretty boy?"

"Your necklace."

"Yeah, I wear it everyday," Billy hums. He lifts his eyes again to the crowd of middle schoolers in front of him and thinks of that novel he read for Jackson's English Comp last year. _The Catcher in the Rye._ "What about it?"

Steve shuffles, flip flops squealing wet with pool water. "It's gotta mean something, right?"

"Not everything does."

"But the rings--"

"Necklace, 'S. Saint Christopher."

Harrington flinches when Billy blows his whistle at the fuckface dunking his brother in the deep end. Clearly startled by how quickly the skies cloud and then clear under the weight of it all. He shuffles, flittering around like a moth in the rain. "I don't know what that is."

 _"Who,_ Pretty Boy, he's a who, like." Billy pushes his sunglasses up over his head. "Grant me, o lord, a steady hand and a watchful eye?"

All he gets in return is confusion the size of the moon.

Billy chuckles. Glances at the water, at the kids learning to backstroke in the shallow end. "Patron saint of travel. Guards the churning river so the kids don't down in the current."

Steve's face clouds over, gray meeting brown and then--he's grinning. "Like you?"

"Hardly a Saint." Billy blows his whistle again. "Hey! No running on my watch."

"Agree to disagree." Steve knocks on the chair once. Twice, before slinking away.

Billy's pendant burns a hole in his chest.

\--

After that it changes. 

Sudden rain during the height of the dry season. Swelling rivers, fertilized crops, flooding basements--welcome and terrifying. Steve reaches for him. Through space and time, over the armrests in movie theatres and just.

Locks up.

Fingers gripping the pendant, St. Christopher buried under centimeters of skin until their lips meet. Fire and smoke in dark rooms. Billy's thought about this before--Steve, reeling him in, a runaway kite on a windy day and he feels.

Grounded. 

Lost in the bend of his back over the couch in Steve's living room. Deserted with his ass pressed against the shower wall, brown curls tangled with silver and gold as Steve bobs up and down. A buoy in the calm ocean, just. 

Right.

Somewhere along the way Billy tries to figure out where his gaze started turning everything to solid gold. King Midas, bathed in riches the color of chocolate fountains, and. Steve tugs on the chain. Always, perpetually. Billy follows because he's helpless to do anything else.

One of them has turned the other to gold. Billy, he. Doesn't know which is which, can't locate the line in the sand and it doesn't matter. Not when Steve sleeps nestled against him. Not when the sunlight shines soft and sweet through the curtains in his bedroom, and.

Not when St. Christopher rests against skies the color of sand.

Billy lets the chain fall to Steve's sleeping form, clasping the necklace against his neck. Billy plants a kiss on Steve’s forehead, pulling him closer through the waves. Watching.

Safe travels and golden afternoons.


End file.
